


the emu in the sky (obviously)

by mighty-worm (wyrm_n_sigun)



Series: Bromance Capital of the UK [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Gen, Irene Adler's aftermath, John's life is surreal, Lestrade is a man with a camera, an attempt at humor, disgusting levels of bromantic stupidity and fluff, drugged!sherlock, mentions of non-con drugging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-11-11 10:31:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyrm_n_sigun/pseuds/mighty-worm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There's a chuckle from the stair, and John glances over to realise, to far less of his horror than he might have anticipated, that Lestrade's phone's video settings have now been turned towards nefarious purposes; John can think of at least five situations where that potential blackmail material might come in useful. He does have the grace to spare a twinge of sympathy for Sherlock's dented pride, though he hardly thinks that ego would suffer overlong from it. "</p><p> </p><p>This fic's original title was <i><a href="http://sigtryggr.tumblr.com/post/18334011807/a-fic-in-which-sherlock-is-drugged-out-of-his-head-in">a fic in which Sherlock is drugged out of his head in ASiB and John’s not taking shit and also I wrote this at four in the morning so I think I really got at some convincing incoherency here</a></i>, but that seemed like it would just spoil everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the emu in the sky (obviously)

"You know, I was wrong about him. He did know where to look."

"For what? What are you talking about?"

"The keycode to my safe."

"What was it?"

"Shall I tell him?" she asks Sherlock, who is no position to answer.

The police are coming.

"My measurements," is her husky good-bye, and then in a flash of coat she's gone, and when John looks out the window it's as if she danced away upon the breeze for all that there's a trace of her. The police are coming ever nearer, but John doubts they'll find her, not unless she wants them to. 

Behind him, still supine on her bedroom floor, Sherlock's trying to get up, though he's forgotten that upwards momentum alone won't restore him to his feet. His neck twists strangely and his eyes are extremely unfocused. 

"Sherlock, take it easy," John says, before the man hurts himself. Sherlock can't hear him, but he flops back anyway, helpless beneath the fist of the drug. John kneels next to him, and rolls him into the recovery position.

"Nnhg," the ever-eloquent detective says.

"Right, yes." John checks his vitals; oddly enough, he's not inclined to trust Miss Adler's word on the drug's effects, and if she kills Sherlock then damn John Watson to hell for bloody revenge. Lucky for everyone involved, Sherlock seems fine. In his current state, he's probably actually more fine than he is when lucid; he's making just about as much sense at any rate, and he's in no position to cause irreparable damage to anyone or thing.

"Ohnng. J --" Sherlock tries his best to focus upon him, but is entirely unsuccessful. His head lolls and he drops his mouth open and closed, like a fish. With another unintelligible noise, he tries to roll onto his stomach.

"No, nope, we're having none of that." John pushes him back. Sherlock proceeds to roll onto the other side, away from John. "No -- for God's sake -- " John grabs him and begins rolling him back; Sherlock's hand comes up and vaguely scrabbles at John's arm, using the slight leverage to heave himself into a seated position; as soon as he does, his eyes cross and he looks close to vomiting. Because he is evidently insane, he tries to crawl away from John.

John grabs his flatmate around the waist and pulls him back. Sherlock resists weakly, and then falls back against John's bad shoulder like a dead weight; John hisses in pain and attempts to move him. Sherlock's mouth is still hanging open and he breathes roughly against John's neck. John is lowering him back to a recline when he hears shouting from outside and the police trying to open the door. 

It splinters with too much enthusiasm and is followed only a second later by a familiar, familiar call.

"Sherlock? Sherlock! John?" God bless DI Lestrade, even if John has no idea what he's doing here. Perhaps he has a sixth sense for when Sherlock gets into trouble; it must go off with tiring frequency.

"Greg! Up here," John calls, his voice breaking a little, mouth dry. There's a shout from below, and then Lestrade's flying up the stairs and the police are swarming throughout the townhouse. 

"John! What the h--" he stops when he gets to the doorway, staring in. "Oh, n -- he's not -- Sherlock... "

John realises that, given the way he's leaning over Sherlock and blocking Lestrade's view of the consultant's face, those long legs could be those of a dead man. "He's fine, apparently: drugged. Some sort of sedative with a bit of deliriant mixed in, I think, as he's not quite out yet." As if to punctuate his words, Sherlock lifts one leg feebly, dropping it when he can't control the muscle any longer. 

Lestrade turns. He shouts down the stairs: "I think we might need a gurney up here!"

"Nn - oh. Nno gurnsh," Sherlock slurs, semi-conscious eyes stopping their wandering to alight upon the rough area of John's face. His expression, where it's not ridiculous in its substance-addled stupor, is pleading. "No gurnsh."

"No --- no gurney?" John asks, wondering if he's a fool to pretend Sherlock's capable of any directioned thought. "Is that what you're saying?"

"No gurn -- no, no gurnhey. Nno. Dun... dunneed."

"I think I'll be the judge of that, Sherlock." Sherlock's gaze wanders; John moves to a crouch. "Right, then, let's see if we can get you standing. One, two -- " he heaves the man up to his feet, where Sherlock totters and weaves even as he puts almost all of his weight on John. At least this time he has the consideration to lean on John's good side; nevertheless, he'd object to Sherlock putting his head on his shoulder again, though that's for entirely different reasons. John holds Sherlock about the waist to balance him better. He watches Sherlock's face: he doesn't seem as close to vomiting as before, though surprises could always happen. He's never seen a pair of blearier, less focussed eyes. Sherlock's gaze usually feels like a laser beam.

"All right?"

"Afflshh," the six-foot baby informs him. "Heshad -- he shad brukkenribbs." 

"Try putting one foot in front of the other, now."

"Why'd he hafve brukkenribbs?"

"Sherlock, walk or it's the gurney."

Sherlock walks. It doesn't look much like walking. It looks more like being dragged by John and occasionally remembering to do some funny old thing with his feet that he can't quite figure out and likely isn't very important. It looks like it, because that's pretty much exactly what it is. 

Lestrade stands near the top of the stairs, his phone near his ear but most of his attention on the three-legged hobble being rather spectacularly lost by the two flatmates. They can't even hobble properly. God, this is pathetic, even more so now that a gang of policemen and women are milling about the corridor and ducking in and out of the American-strewn sitting room. Not a few of them shoot John poorly hidden smirks, and significant looks at the pair of paramedics standing there with a gurney and no heart to force Sherlock onto it. 

"Ceiling. Cof -- coffee?" Brilliant as ever, Sherlock.

"Mind the rucked up carpet here," John warns. Sherlock doesn't mind it, and almost trips over the bump. John catches him easily.

"Coffee onn ceiling. Why -- whuzzat... that." Sherlock points to something near the balustrade. John doesn't even look. "Whyzzat. Wood's like -- like stars. 'S gotta emu in the sky. With the... with the aborg- abor..."

Sherlock pitches forward in a hopeless attempt at heading towards whatever he is fixated on. John holds him, but now Sherlock pushes. "Whyzzit emu?" He pushes again, harder, and John holds him back, but one of Sherlock's hands suddenly gains vivacity and swats John in the face as it's brought up towards Sherlock's goal. The blow doesn't hurt much, but it is annoying. It also has the unfortunate effect of weakening John's grip around Sherlock's middle, which doesn't permit Sherlock a clean getaway but leaves him, still unable to move on his own, hanging sadly at John's side. "'S looks s'more like andandeaterer." 

There's a chuckle from the stair, and John glances over to realise, to far less of his horror than he might have anticipated, that Lestrade's phone's video settings have now been turned towards nefarious purposes; John can think of at least five situations where that potential blackmail material might come in useful. He does have the grace to spare a twinge of sympathy for Sherlock's dented pride, though he hardly thinks that ego would suffer overlong from it. 

He hoists Sherlock up again and fairly marches him towards the top stair.

"Right, no coffee stains, and no emus. Walk down the stairs like the closest approximation to a normal human being that you can possibly manage, Sherlock. _Please_. I'd never known until now that you were capable of taking lunacy to such new extremes."

"'Mm not lune. Luna -- lu -- no. 'Mm not a moon."

" _Stairs_. Walk on them." 

John stands a step below him, which just does fantastic things to his already sensitive feelings about his height compared to the black-coated stork, and holds Sherlock's middle as the consultant edges down the stairs. His hands on the rail are weak and jittery and he can't coax his muscles into grasping properly, but John isn't going to let him fall. Sherlock trips once, twice. He find the marks where an old set of nails had once held a previous stair carpet in place absolutely fascinating, and tries to lick them. Otherwise, though, it's going fairly well.

But then Sherlock tries to climb over the rail. Apparently the wallpaper on the other side is extremely interesting. 

"Jesus shit, _no! No!" _John's arms, temporarily dislodged by Sherlock's unexpected movement, fly back around the detective's waist. _"NO! No, are you crazy?"___ He pulls him back off the rail, onto which Sherlock had only gotten halfway. "Right, that's it. I've had it. You have officially lost your walking privileges, Sherlock Holmes." 

And, with that, and with half of the New Yard watching, John lifts Sherlock up and onto his back, slung over his good shoulder like a bit of hunted game. Sherlock emits a sad, confused whine. Sherlock's bum is right by John's ear; he puts an arm around Sherlock's legs to hold him there and continues down the stairs, the consulting detective on his back twisting to look around but not, apparently, trying to get free. The man mostly hangs limply, which is both hilarious and pathetic. John sees Lestrade snapping a quick photo. 

When it's just John walking, it goes astonishingly fast. The police are still swarming about, the spectacle over as John marches out onto the street and to the ambulance waiting; Sherlock probably doesn't need to go to hospital, but he does need to get checked over properly. 

He charms some basic equipment from a paramedic, and props Sherlock against the ambulance wall to do a quick once-over. It's confirmed: Sherlock's fine, just mental as usual; apparently, at this current moment, the particles of dirt under John's fingernails are humanity's greatest enigma and thousands will die if Sherlock doesn't sniff at them. His worst injuries seem to be some strained muscles from the brief fight with the CIA blokes, and bruises from John's ministrations. John, in a burst of worn-thin evil, elects not to put a plaster over that cut on Sherlock's cheekbone. Bastard deserves it and it'd be a shame to cover up John's lovely handiwork.

"Sscare me," Sherlock mumbles. John bends closer to hear him. 

"What?" John discards the stethoscope.

"J -- you -- a bit. The bit. Er, the," Sherlock makes a vague punching motion with a not-fully-clenched hand, "... the that bit." He's still leaning entirely against the wall and he looks exhausted.

"My punch scared you? Or -- oh, the whole fight. _I_ scared you."

"Er," Sherlock doesn't seem to have entirely understood the response. Not that he seems to understand anything right now. 

"Right, let's -- let's get you home. Come on." John stands back and gives Sherlock another chance at walking. They make it to Lestrade's car, though Sherlock is still babbling sporadically all the way.

It's in the car that Sherlock first begins to show signs of really, properly giving in to the drug: he slumps onto John's shoulder and John has to fight to not push him off roughly. Sherlock's more subdued, and though he's still spouting nonsense he's mumbling rather than shouting his mad emu-based observations. (It's a testament to how thoroughly John trusts Sherlock's awareness and judgment that he accepts these as true observations and not hallucinations.)

By the time they get back to the flat, Sherlock's on the brink of sleep and needs to be shaken a bit to be able to stand up. Lestrade follows them in, hanging a little behind as he watches John struggle to drag his flatmate up the narrow stairs. When John and the dead weight make it to the top, Lestrade's on the landing.

"You two going to be all right?"

"Yeah, 'spect so. I'll call if we need anything."

"Mm. I'll need you in tomorrow, for statements and all that. Will he be okay by then?"

"Think so. I think the weird bit's wearing off. I think I just need to get him to bed." As if in agreement, Sherlock mumbles something against John's cheek that sounds more like sleep talk than delirium. 

"Right, then, I'll leave you to it. Him to it. Right." Lestrade clears his throat then, and descends. John drags Sherlock to his room.

"We'll just -- right, here, just get into the bed-- "John heaves a groan as he deposits Sherlock onto the sheets. While it's good that Sherlock's put on more weight since they met six months ago, carrying him isn't entirely all that much fun. 

Sherlock is absolutely limp. He's not even twitching, and his eyes are already half-closed. John debates for a moment, and then bends to take a hold of Sherlock's enormous feet, prying them loose from the shoes. He swings Sherlock's legs up and onto the bed and adjusts his position, affecting a certain military briskness that brooks little gentleness. Sherlock says yet another unintelligible thing and for all John knows it's the meaning of life; John honestly doesn't care as he draws the duvet up and, to his own surprise, actually tucks the man in; maybe John's gone all soft watching the self-possessed detective turn into a small and tired child. Sherlock's losing the battle with unconsciousness, and those half-closed eyes are quickly becoming seven-eighths closed eyes. His breathing's slowing. 

"Right. Right," John says, a bit more slowly. He steps back, surveys the long-limbed sprawl. he shakes his head. "Mad bugger." He turns to the door.

"Shoochuh," Sherlock breathes, with more volume than John would have expected. John turns back towards him with his hand still on the doorknob, but Sherlock's still on the very precipice of consciousness. He hasn't moved. 

"Sorry?"

"Shoo -- shoot. Shootchuh. Y-uh."

"What about shooting?"

"You."

"Me? Wh-- _oh."_

"He wu-goin... shoot. Can't... can't. You. Can't not." 

"But you saved me, Sherlock."

"Can't shootchuh. Nobody can. Not..." he seems to be losing his train of thought. John smiles and walks back to him, where Sherlock's just barely still watching him and couldn't move even if he had to and the lamp-light is warm and safe and bright even while the world outside is guns and darkness and there's bits inside both of them that are more than a little broken.

But there's paste between the cracks.

"Don't worry. I'm okay," John says, because he is. He claps his friend on the shoulder, and smiles. 

Sherlock smiles back without realising, and it's the dopiest and soppiest thing John's ever seen; he wants to laugh. For a moment, he considers taking a leaf out of Lestrade's book and starting to collect blackmail material. 

He wonders idly if Irene Adler, who seemed so keen on Sherlock, would want a copy of the picture. But then maybe that's not her thing. John looks back to Sherlock. 

Sherlock's asleep.


End file.
